


Negative Space

by Hopetohell



Category: Hellraiser (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Smut, past trauma, poor communication skills
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-09
Updated: 2021-02-09
Packaged: 2021-03-14 16:41:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29299065
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Hopetohell/pseuds/Hopetohell
Summary: It’s not a rivalry or an argument over a girl or anything like that; it’s just this tension that builds and builds and builds until you’d swear every move he makes is calculated to drive you mad
Relationships: Mike (Hellraiser)/Reader
Comments: 2
Kudos: 1





	Negative Space

It’s not a rivalry or an argument over a girl or anything like that; it’s just this tension that builds and builds and builds until you’d swear every move he makes is calculated to drive you mad; every creaking footstep on the boards is an attempt on your patience. Every scrape and clink of cutlery is designed to make your blood burn and your teeth grind together. 

There’s no way in and no way out; you’re stuck here til the storm passes and _Christ,_ Mike’s taking a long time in the shower; there’s only so much hot water in the tank and the little bastard is gonna use it all. Sure, a cold shower would make your nipples stand out against your shirt; that part would be worth it for the way his eyes would track your every move and he would probably jerk himself off after, his eyes screwed shut and looking for all the world like a fallen angel. And if you think about it that’s your business; as long as it stays inside your head it’s your problem and your pleasure. 

It’s the way you bite your hand to keep his name between your teeth; it’s the way you will not let him have the satisfaction of hearing you moan for him, not after he left, he left and he was gone, until a curly-headed John Doe woke up in a hospital bed and muttered terrible, disjointed things about a hook and a mask and so much blood,

_(It’s just a little party, babe, you sure you don’t wanna come?_

_Yeah. I’ve gotta finish this paper. You have fun; don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.)_

and when he turned up on your doorstep weak and shivering it was to huddle on your couch and look at nothing, or else to snarl and snap and _I told you. I don't want to talk about it. Turn on the fucking news if you want to know._

And he's hurting, of course; he's raw still, and there's that memory front and center, that moment you've had to imagine, when they dug him up from the earth, pale and cold and nearly dead. 

But he's not dead now; he's pink and steaming with a towel dangerously low on his hips and _of course I left you some hot water, babe. What do you take me for_ but "some" turns out to be two minutes' worth and when you get out you're all gooseflesh and stiffly peaked nipples, shivering and angry and

_just like I expected_ and you're opening the door to yell, to argue, to tell him once again that you'd like to take a hot shower once in a while too but there he is, towel abandoned, face like--

like what?

Like grief, and pain, and need. His entire body curves around the motion of his hand on his cock and _Jesus, Mike, you’re gonna tear it off if you keep that up_ but when he looks at you a storm is brewing; it will tear him apart. He cannot possibly contain all this: the cannot and the will not talk about whatever it is that’s kept him up at night, pacing, hand clenched to his chest like a promise but that’s not it, is it? 

_I can’t tell anymore whether it hurts or it just feels like nothing. I can’t see it anymore._

_Whether what hurts?_ You’re close now, close enough to touch; he startles at your hand in his curls, like a wounded animal. _Mike. Come on, you know me. Tell me what you need._

_I just need to feel in control again. He took it from me and I—_

Christ, fuck, _fuck,_ is that what this is about? And if what you’re imagining is not quite right it’s not that far off either. Something happened between Mike leaving for the party and waking up in a pine box, and god, this is a terrible idea; you really need to talk about it first, the next words out of your mouth are a goddamn disaster waiting to happen but

_Hey, okay. I’m here. Whatever you need. You want control? I’ll bend for you._

_Not looking for a pity fuck._

_This isn’t— damn it, Mike. It’s eating you, I can see it, I know you feel it. And if you won’t talk about it, then you need to get it out somehow because I—_ care about you? Love you? What? Whatever it is, it’s enough for him to see the seed of it, to pull your towel away and push you down with a hand at the center of your chest and 

_Won’t be nice. Can’t be. Not like this, not today._

_I don’t care, just. Just fucking get in me._

And it’s a burn and stretch to take the brunt of him, to feel him thick and insistent and there’s a long moment when he’s in you to the root where all he can do is screw his eyes shut and breathe through his nose, when you’re shifting to find a comfortable position, when he says _babe, I—_

_You want control, take it. It’s alright, it’s alright, I’m here._

And yeah, that’s it, that’s what he needs; he hooks your knee over his elbow and rolls his hips and _Christ,_ it’s like the first time all over again, stretching and opening around him, relearning the shape of him from the negative space he carves out inside your cunt, as he recalls the angle that’ll have you clenching hard around him. And he's reaching, shifting, pulling, scrambling to sit up and keep himself buried deep; he controls your movement with one arm still under your leg and the other barred across your back, holding you close, holding himself close to you, belly to belly, breath to breath. 

_Not nice, my ass._ It’s not sweet but it’s close and it’s desperate, it’s Mike clawing his way up from hell with every tiny movement, all of it a torment for you both because like this there is no leverage; there is only the press of flesh against flesh and it isn’t enough, not like this, not when he needs the motion of flesh to pull his mind behind it, and so he turns and grips to get you underneath him again. It’s a wrestle and a fight but the fight is all inside him; like this, bent in half, you are motionless and can only receive him into you; there is nothing for it but to take. 

_Like this, like this, show me every hurt and every tear, make me see it, let it out from you and I will take it for my own._ And it’s not right or good but it has him coming hard with a gasping sob, warm wet salt— _tears_?— falling on your tongue. And it’s long moments of only breathing til he remembers himself, til he helps you over the edge with a shaking hand, forehead pressed to yours, breathing in the sounds of a kitten-soft climax. 

_We should talk about it._

_Yeah._

_We should eat._

_Yeah._

_We should—_

_Yeah, but can we. Can we just exist for a little while? I don’t know where to start, and I—_

_Okay._

_Okay._


End file.
